


Ghost from the past

by imera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Presumed Dead, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imera/pseuds/imera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought he would tell them if they hurt him, but John told them all he knew, Sherlock was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost from the past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yersifanel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yersifanel/gifts).



> Unbetaed, but written with love
> 
> This was slightly harder to write as I've not written this pairing before, and there isn't much smut, but I do love the end result.

“Tell us where he is, and we’ll stop your suffering,” the man said in a calm voice, resting his hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing slightly as to make his point. “Just tell us.”

John was calm, like he always was in those situations. His body, especially his face, hurt far more than it had ever done, but John still managed to retain the same calmness he had. “He’s dead,” John repeated for the thousandth time since they captured him.

Like always, the man did not believe him, which earned John another hit with a fist against his already bruised face. His whole face was swollen, and one eye could barely open, his jaw was also badly hurt, making speaking a difficult task as well.

“You’re lying.”

John closed his one working eye, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t understand why the men were so determined not to believe him.

They said Sherlock’s casket was empty; John didn’t believe them, having been there when they closed it, barely taken his eyes off it as they drove it to the church. They continued to tell him that, but John refused to listen, after all, he was there the day Sherlock jumped, he saw him, he saw the blood, Sherlock was dead.

“Tell me!” the stranger said again before his fist hit John’s cheekbone yet again. The ringing began once more in his ears and the headache returned, forcing John to keep his eyes closed a few seconds until it had mostly passed and he could open his eyes without the room spinning.

“If you tell me, this will all be over, I’ll let you go.”

“No you won’t,” John firmly replied, knowing well enough that the kidnappers would not let him live. His mouth filled with a coppery taste, something he’d gotten used to since meeting Sherlock.

“You’re right, I won’t, but at least your suffering will be over.” In that exact moment that sounded good. After hours of being their prisoner, beaten and abused, John wanted it to end, but he couldn’t. Even if Sherlock was alive, and John knew where he was hiding, John still wouldn’t tell them, Sherlock was after all his friend, and he would die protecting him.

“Gunther.” It was all the stranger had to say in order to strike fear through John. Since he’d been captured John had had the pleasure of meeting Gunther twice, and each time Gunther would make sure John would experience so much pain that John almost begged for death. John wanted to beg, but each time he remembered Sherlock, and the bravery he showed, so he kept his mouth closed.

John closed his eyes when he heard Gunther move towards. He tried to take deep breaths to calm his body, knowing that after the session with the large man he’d probably lose consciousness, again.

“Ready for another round?” Gunther asked with a heavy accent, making John sure he was German, or somewhere close.

John’s eyes remained closed, which was why when Gunther fell on him, knocking him down, he had no idea what happened. Groaning from the pain he felt in the back of his head John tried to wiggle around to make it easier for him to breathe. Not only were his ribs aching from all the beating, but Gunther was a big man and his weight made it harder for John to breath.

The other kidnappers yelled something John didn’t quite catch; he was far more interested in opening his eyes to see what happened with Gunther. The moment he saw the blood from the bullet hole in his head he heard the other men start shooting.

John tried to see what was happening, but Gunther’s size blocked his view, which left him with the only option available, trying to get him off before suffocated.

The shooting ended, and John was still alive, which meant that the attacker was either there to save him, or he wasn’t aware of John’s presence.

The pain in his chest was excruciating, but John managed to keep quiet as he twisted under the weight, hoping that Gunther would magically roll off him.

It never did happen, but instead he saw a vision. That was at least what he believed as he lay on his back, tied down to a chair, and with a massive mountain of a man laying on top of him. The only explanation to what he saw was that he was dying and Sherlock was there to take him to the other side. It was the only logical explanation, but for some reason John didn’t believe it.

There was a few seconds of silence between them before Sherlock grabbed Gunther and pulled him off John. Then he reached for John, untying his legs and arms before helping him up. “Can you walk?”

John had almost forgotten Sherlock’s voice, since John’s life ended. Finding it difficult to speak- not only because he had at least one fractured rib- John simply nodded. With Sherlock’s arms around his waist he was taken out of the abandoned warehouse where he’d been held captive, and into a cab.

John stared at Sherlock, wondering if it really was him or if his mind was playing games with him. He’d often dream about Sherlock suddenly showing up, but never had he thought it would happen.

Sherlock took him to the hospital where they would check his beaten body. John watched his friend as the woman tried to see how severe John’s situation was. He was badly hurt, several fractured ribs, concussion, and it would take some time before his swollen face would go back to normal. She asked all kinds of questions to what happened, John simply lied and told her he was at a party that didn’t end as he hoped it would. She looked sceptical, but she chose not to accuse him of lying. She suggested he’d stay the night, and maybe he would have if Sherlock wasn’t there.

“I want to go home,” he told the woman, who smiled and wrote him a note for some painkillers he could take. John thanked her before letting Sherlock help him out of the emergency room to another cab.

The only time anyone spoke during the drive home was when Sherlock gave the driver their address. John fought the urge to look at Sherlock, not only because he knew his friend was staring at him, but because he didn’t know what he would do once he saw the face of his friend, alive. For months the bloody face of Sherlock haunted him, kept him up at nights and occasionally made him cry until he found a bottle to drown his sorrows in. Accepting that he was dead was not an easy task, and accepting that it was all a lie was just as difficult.

When they reached 221 Baker Street John left the cab while Sherlock paid the cabbie. Every step ached, but he was determined to walk by himself.

“Let me help you,” Sherlock suddenly said from besides him, wrapping his arms around John.

“No!” John shouted, pushing Sherlock away. It hurt him to see the look on Sherlock’s face right then, but his own feelings were far from calm.

They stared at each other, the silence between them growing until John’s emotions took over and he did something he didn’t regret at all. Swinging his arm he sent his fist flying straight into Sherlock’s nose, hoping his strength was enough to break it.

Sherlock tumbled backwards, his hands flying up to his nose, which by the look of it started bleeding. John’s jaw clenched together when he saw what he did, happy he returned some of the pain he had felt, but feeling horrible about it at the same time. A broken nose was the least Sherlock deserved, but John didn’t want to cause his friend more physical pain, not at that moment.

Ignoring Sherlock he walked up the stairs, struggling with every step as pain rushed through his body, making him groan. Before she reached the top stair the door opened and Mrs Hudson entered the hall.

“John, is that you?” she said before her voice trailed off. John could only assume she saw Sherlock. “Welcome back,” she said in a shaken voice. John didn’t pay attention to Sherlock as he said something to her, all he wanted was to find his bed so he could sleep until the pain would disappear.

Making it up to his room wasn’t an easy task, not when he was determined to do it alone, but that didn’t stop John. Sherlock stood behind him and offered to help, only to be told in an emotionless voice that John did not wish his help. Sherlock accepted his reply but didn’t disappear into the living room like John would have wanted; instead he waited until John reached the top and entered his room.

Tired, hurting, and still in shock, John lay down on his bed, barely able to breathe when he thought back to Sherlock’s sudden appearance. He didn’t know how much time passed before he broke down, only that crying exhausted him until he fell asleep.

He was happy that Sherlock wasn’t dead, but every second of every day since he jumped had been a living nightmare for John. If it wasn’t because he personally didn’t believe suicide was a valid option he would have ended his life a long time ago. Instead he lived every day, if he could call it living. Mycroft had been kind and paid the rent, as well as the little food John bothered eating. Mrs Hudson was kind and made him dinner a few times, not that it tempted John’s appetite. He was a shadow of the man he once used to be, and it was all Sherlock’s fault.

The only time John left his room the next day was when he needed to visit the bathroom. The first time he didn't see Sherlock, which was just as well. Sherlock must have been tired of John was avoiding him because the second time John left the bathroom Sherlock was standing outside. 

John was startled a little as he hadn’t expected Sherlock to stand there when he opened the door, but then Sherlock spoke and every painful memory rushed back. "John," was all Sherlock could say before his nose met John's fist again.

As Sherlock tried to regain his balance John pushed past him and entered his bedroom where he crawled into bed, tears threatening at the corner of his eyes once again. Punching Sherlock should have made him feel better but all it did was remind John he wasn't dead, and that he was responsible for John's suffering.

He didn’t know how long he lay in his bed when the door opened, and because he was facing the wall he had to imagine what Sherlock was doing. He was most likely trying to decide what to say, because behaving like his old self would not help him right then.

“I will tell you why I did it another day, but right now I want you to know that no day passed without me thinking of you.” John’s heart ached as he listened to Sherlock, finding it difficult not to turn around and face Sherlock.

“I don’t believe you,” John lied. Sherlock might have faked his own death, but John was certain there was no way his friend could forget him, they were friends after all.

The door closed, and for a second John thought Sherlock left, which only increased the unpleasant feeling pressing around his heart.

“I never forgot you,” Sherlock’s voice spread through the room, breaking John. He wasn’t able to hold back and a few tears escaped his puffy eyes, his body shaking as he tried to hold back the worst of the pain, only to moan when his chest hurt.

A warm hand rested against his shoulder, comforting him until the sobs vanished. John didn’t want Sherlock there, it made it harder to act as if he hated him. He didn’t want to continue behaving as if he was angry and hurt, but he couldn’t let Sherlock believe he was fine.

Feeling Sherlock as he sat behind him on the bed he felt his determination to keep up the appearance of him hurt fade, and before he could stop himself he turned around and faced the ghost, as he’d often done as he slept, but in his dreams he wasn’t hurting, and Sherlock looked happier.

“You hurt me,” John confessed.

“I know.” 

They stared at each other, the room silent. Sherlock’s hand caressing John’s shoulder, making him feel whole once again; without Sherlock his life wasn’t the same

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t.”


End file.
